


Sharp and Glorious

by Oh_Toasty



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Book Aziraphale, Crowley’s pov, Gen, Title from a Hozier Song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 18:57:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19340596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Toasty/pseuds/Oh_Toasty
Summary: Occasionally,  there are men in serious suits who suggest, very politely, that perhaps he’d like to sell his shop.Aziraphale always sets them right.





	Sharp and Glorious

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short little writing practice. I haven’t written in a while, and never for good omens, but this seemed fun.

The first time Crowley sees the men in dark suits and glasses, he thinks nothing of it. Afterall, there’s only two of them, and as one speaks to Aziraphale the other eyes the books with a look of distaste. Crowley tops off his glass of wine, and watches as Aziraphale scares off what he believes is just another potential customer. 

His angel never had been good at sharing. 

“All taken care of?” He asks when the men leave the store not looking back once. 

Aziraphale smiles, and any worry, any unease, he may have felt simply disappears. 

“Yes, my dear. It’s all taken care of.”

The next time Crowley sees the men, it strikes him as odd. The men are different than last time, but they have the same mannerisms. Their suits are nearly identical to the last two, and Crowley can’t help but wonder who Aziraphale is trying to save now. 

“Would this change your mind?” One of the men asks, laying down a grubby roll of fifty pound notes. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. Now, I think you’d best be on your way now; I have plans for the evening, and the star of them just arrived.”

Aziraphale beams towards Crowley, and he, in turn, does not notice the befuddlement of the two men who exit the shop in a hurry. 

“How have you been, Angel?”

“All the better now that you’re here, my dear.”

They dine at The Ritz that night, and Crowley can’t help but smile at his bastard of an angel. 

The third, and final, time that the Crowley sees the men at the bookshop, Crowley himself isn’t supposed to be there. He’d snuck in the back door, planning to leave Aziraphale some rare book he’d found, and then disappear before the angel saw him, and, as such, avoid the emotional thank yous that were sure to accompany such a gift. 

He’s just placing the book, a rendition of Nostradamus’ Les Propheties that contains one extra prophecy found in only two other copies of the book, on the table where Aziraphale won’t be able to miss it, when he hears a deep voice. 

“I don’t know what you did to my men, or why they don’t remember this place, but this is your last chance.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” Aziraphale’s cold tone throws Crowley for a loop, it’s a great deal less friendly than anything he’s ever heard before, even directed at potential customers. 

Crowley inches towards the exit where he peers out the crack between the frame and the door. His eyes fall once again on a rather nondescript man in a bland, black suit and a pair of cheap sunglasses. 

“I mean,” the man pauses, obviously seeking to intimidate. Unfortunately for him, Aziraphale had once been ready to face off with Lucifer himself. “That It may be time for you to sell your shop, after all, there’s all kinds of crazy things happening these days, and I’d hate for them to reach this far.”

“I’m none to concerned about it.” Aziraphale informs him. “As you’ll be going home and forgetting that you ever had any interest in this shop at all.”

Crowley feels the rush of an angelic miracle, and watches as the man walks himself out the door, his face horribly blank. 

He leaves the book as he always intended, although he adds a note before making his escape. 

It reads as follows:

‘Here you are, you beautiful bastard.’


End file.
